Ever since the damn island decided to give Steve that trunk of his last week, Bucky's nightmares have been getting worse and worse, long forgotten memories dredged up from the ether to provide his subconscious with new fodder to exploit. Tonight he wakes with a start, a guttural scream tearing itself from his throat as the bloodied images of the men he's killed fade into the darkness of his unlit room. With Jason out 'til the small hours of the morning, though, undoubtedly to spend some quality time with his little blonde, Bucky's on his own; it's for the best.
His skin covered in a thin layer of sweat and his breaths labored, Bucky pads out of his room to get a glass of water to soothe his throat, his familiarity with the hut's layout such that it doesn't matter that half of him is still in that dream, because his feet know the way, even if his mind is necessarily elsewhere.
"What the--"
Similarly, when he's attacked from behind in his own frigging home in the dead of night, it doesn't matter that he hasn't been in a real fight
( ... )
It's the change in the air she feels first. Everything is warmer, suddenly, the air parting before her thicker, and Natalia waits for it, the sting of gas in her lungs, the burn of it in her eyes, but nothing comes.
Nothing but a deft pair of hands, and that's all wrong. They reach for her, find purchase - impossible, not these hired goons, these overfed, bloated thugs - and divert her, send her well over the head of the man she'd marked for her first blood of the evening.
Rage swells within her, but she doesn't let it out like she wants, won't waste the breath she needs for fighting on a scream, but in her heart Natalia promises them pain. Pain for surprising her, delaying her, for standing between her and something that might save James.
It's with an angry grunt only that she spins, long leg flying low this time to sweep the bastard's leg.
Bucky's on his back before he knows it, but he doesn't stay down for long, instead using the momentum to roll back on to his feet. The stance he adopts is low to the ground, and he charges forward at the intruder. His eyes haven't yet adjusted to the dark, but he's in no frame of mind to do anything but shoot first, and ask questions later.
Weight suggests she's female. The trick with the leg suggests she's trained. Question is: did she break in while I was sleeping... Or is she just the latest arrival to this little slice of hell? Wouldn't be the first time's someone shown up in my house in the middle of the night, but at least the Lafosse girl had manners.
With the aim of subduing rather than engaging further, he moves to grapple the woman; until he has a better idea of whether or not he's even the intended target, it's his best bet.
She's underestimated him yet again. That fall should have been enough to take his breath, but he's on his feet again, the sound of his feet moving lightly over the floor a little too faint to Natalia's ears. He'd been fat, she's sure of it, but this floor is all wrong, too. Not concrete, but wood, or something like it.
Everything is wrong, but Natalia doesn't have time to question it, not until this fool is back on the ground where he belongs and all his brothers like them. She moves away from the hand she feels displacing the air before her, catches it and pulls, propelling the body attached into something that shakes and rattles with the impact.
The dresser gives with the impact, splintering from his weight; he never much cared for it, anyway. Letting out a grunt that's equal parts pain and frustration, he recovers quickly, not allowing his thoughts linger on the immediate past, because he's got greater concerns at the moment. Again he goes for her, but his approach this time is more Winter Soldier than it is Captain America. She's still just a silhouette in the dark, but this time when he lets his fists fly, he's pretty sure he's aiming for her head.
Natalia moves at the last of all possible moments. On any other day, against any other foe save a handful, this would be by design, but tonight it's pure circumstance. This man is fast, faster than any foot soldier has a right to be, and Natalia's heart constricts.
Rostov. He's seen them coming, somehow, planted this man to stop her, but it isn't going to happen, Natalia won't let it. The hand flies wide by centimeters only, closing on nothing but air, and Natalia is moving, fighting dirty now, every cruel and painful trick at her disposal. A jab aimed for the solar plexus, a cuff of the flat of her hand to the ear. It's her last concession. The next move she makes will see the snap of someone's neck. There isn't time for this.
Bucky's got a better read of her by the time she sends a hand towards his face, and he catches her by the wrist with his right hand -- he's not desperate enough to use the left, not yet -- twisting her arm, and following it up with a knee aimed for her abdomen. She's fast, a genuine challenge, but the longer they fight, the more familiar she becomes. Were it not for the haze of sleep and anger that still hangs over him, he might be able to pinpoint her identity, but as it is, he's not thinking that far ahead.
The blow lands, something - impatience, perhaps, or carelessness - allowing the impact, and Natalia's soft tissues go rigid with pain, but she doesn't slow. Whoever this bastard is, she has no intentions of showing him her throat, and yet, it's with a furious growl that she raises her right hand, minute muscles in her forearm dialing up the charge in readiment for the Widow's Bite.
"Enough," she bites out, angry enough to speak it in her mother tongue.
Russian greets his ears, and for a moment, Bucky has to wonder if he isn't still asleep, if this isn't just some new trick of the island's. He doesn't waste time wondering for long; the electric whine that's audible over his racing pulse means she's armed, and he ought to be the same, much as he can't shake the nagging feeling that that sound's familiar, too. If this is the island's doing, he's not going to be caught without a weapon, though, not when he's got a room full of them.
"You picked the wrong guy to rob, lady," he replies in her chosen language, as though that's really what's happening here, something as simple as a robbery
( ... )
It's pure spite that steals her spine against the crack of the gun, the clatter of splintering wood behind her - whoever he is, she won't let him see her afraid, and then he speaks again, not in Russian, but in English, and Natalia...
It's not possible. He could have escaped, but, no...it isn't possible, he'd have found a way to send word to her, and if not her, to Steve. James is guilty of many slights to their trust over the last year, but he wouldn't do this, allow them all to think him still suffering in the gulag when he is in fact roaming free.
Her lips part - she's spent so long worrying for him, missing him, that even the thought of him has her whole body yearning to go to him, to kiss him, perhaps, or shake him, or to crush the windpipe of the impostor she's still not convinced he isn't.
Natalia doesn't lower her arm, doesn't move at all in fact but to speak again. The room is different than it should be. She's not dared to look away from him, but even in her periphery, she can see that it's all wrong. "Give me some
Though he grants the request, not for one moment does Bucky tear his eyes from her, his gun forever at the ready as he steps over to light the lamp in the corner, fortunately undamaged in the fight. Once lit, it fills the room with a dull, yellow glow that burns brighter by the second, revealing his identity, yes, but more importantly hers.
Natalia Romanova looks no different than how he saw her last, not younger or older, but he can't bring himself to feel the relief he's so desperately longing for, not yet when this can all still come crashing down around him. Only in their lives could a happy reunion be so fraught with uncertainty.
"Natalia..." he says again, then shakes his head, scoffing. "'Tasha, it's me."
She wastes seconds hating herself for the way it leaves her, all breathless, almost desperate hope. Vulnerability is the last thing she wants to show in the field, but the sight of him is hard to deny in the sudden lamplight, not Captain America in his uniform, defiant, but James, barechested in soft cotton pants, hair rumpled from sleep and a thin layer of sweat on him that suggests he's fresh from a nightmare, a sign Natalia knows all too well.
He looks so real, so earnest, that Natalia forgets herself, outflung arm drawing back against her body in a gesture that's almost girlish. That she's clearly no longer in a file room in Moscow, that Sharon is no longer at her back is secondary to the fact that James is somehow miraculously safe.
"It's this place," Bucky explains, and he can't do it just yet, can't lower his gun until he's absolutely sure, even if she's already dropped hers.
"A pocket dimension that exists outside of space-time... That draws people in from whenever and wherever, and drops them down on a picture perfect island in the hopes the scenery will distract from the fact that it's really just a fancy prison with no guard to be seen, but whose presence is keenly felt, regardless. I've been stuck here for months, only no one would know to look for me, because I'm still living my life back home. They call it Tabula Rasa. I call it a frigging joke."
His gaze falls over her as he talks, something almost hungry about the way he looks; his resolve finally wavers, and he points the gun at the floor instead of between her eyes.
It's the anger that does it, convinces her that it's truly James and no impostor. Natalia's seen the flare of his particular temper too many times not to recognize it, and this place's name, this Tabula Rasa. James would never accept a blank slate
( ... )
"Russia?" he echoes, and he's too tired to hide his confusion. That she's from after his time goes without saying, and for one fleeting moment, he's grateful that it's someone else's turn to shoulder the burden of the future, though he immediately regrets it. He'd been expecting a trial in the States upon his return; that he ended up convicted by the Russians is obviously news.
"What crimes? I don't remember--" he starts in a defiant rush, though he quickly cuts himself off, his lips still parted in surprise, his cheeks still flushed with anger. The slight weight of Natalia's hand is of greater comfort than he would ever admit, though, and his focus is drawn to the curve of her mouth before he looks up again to meet her eyes. "I came here straight from the English Channel Islands, right after the mess with Zemo."
"Yes, that is not so long ago for me either," says Natalia, schooling all but a trace of heat from her voice. She's forgiven him for it, perhaps, running off alone, punishing himself beyond what he deserved, but she won't soon forget the worry he'd caused her.
"James, the crimes for which they condemned you were two hits of the Winter Soldier's, one Victor Lodenko and Rina Szynski, cover names both. They say the Winter Soldier had gone rogue, but I believe otherwise, I believe these people had ties to the Red Room. They were sanctioned hits by the KGB on their own people. I..." She stops short. She's always recovered quickly, but it's all so strange, to be standing here with him after so long, like something from a dream. James has more color to him now, tanned by the sun if the lingering heat is any indication, a looseness to his limbs that she doesn't recall. He's more handsome than ever. Infuriating man. "I had a plan."
His skin covered in a thin layer of sweat and his breaths labored, Bucky pads out of his room to get a glass of water to soothe his throat, his familiarity with the hut's layout such that it doesn't matter that half of him is still in that dream, because his feet know the way, even if his mind is necessarily elsewhere.
"What the--"
Similarly, when he's attacked from behind in his own frigging home in the dead of night, it doesn't matter that he hasn't been in a real fight ( ... )
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Nothing but a deft pair of hands, and that's all wrong. They reach for her, find purchase - impossible, not these hired goons, these overfed, bloated thugs - and divert her, send her well over the head of the man she'd marked for her first blood of the evening.
Rage swells within her, but she doesn't let it out like she wants, won't waste the breath she needs for fighting on a scream, but in her heart Natalia promises them pain. Pain for surprising her, delaying her, for standing between her and something that might save James.
It's with an angry grunt only that she spins, long leg flying low this time to sweep the bastard's leg.
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Weight suggests she's female. The trick with the leg suggests she's trained. Question is: did she break in while I was sleeping... Or is she just the latest arrival to this little slice of hell? Wouldn't be the first time's someone shown up in my house in the middle of the night, but at least the Lafosse girl had manners.
With the aim of subduing rather than engaging further, he moves to grapple the woman; until he has a better idea of whether or not he's even the intended target, it's his best bet.
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Everything is wrong, but Natalia doesn't have time to question it, not until this fool is back on the ground where he belongs and all his brothers like them. She moves away from the hand she feels displacing the air before her, catches it and pulls, propelling the body attached into something that shakes and rattles with the impact.
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Rostov. He's seen them coming, somehow, planted this man to stop her, but it isn't going to happen, Natalia won't let it. The hand flies wide by centimeters only, closing on nothing but air, and Natalia is moving, fighting dirty now, every cruel and painful trick at her disposal. A jab aimed for the solar plexus, a cuff of the flat of her hand to the ear. It's her last concession. The next move she makes will see the snap of someone's neck. There isn't time for this.
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"Enough," she bites out, angry enough to speak it in her mother tongue.
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"You picked the wrong guy to rob, lady," he replies in her chosen language, as though that's really what's happening here, something as simple as a robbery ( ... )
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It's not possible. He could have escaped, but, no...it isn't possible, he'd have found a way to send word to her, and if not her, to Steve. James is guilty of many slights to their trust over the last year, but he wouldn't do this, allow them all to think him still suffering in the gulag when he is in fact roaming free.
Her lips part - she's spent so long worrying for him, missing him, that even the thought of him has her whole body yearning to go to him, to kiss him, perhaps, or shake him, or to crush the windpipe of the impostor she's still not convinced he isn't.
Natalia doesn't lower her arm, doesn't move at all in fact but to speak again. The room is different than it should be. She's not dared to look away from him, but even in her periphery, she can see that it's all wrong. "Give me some
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Natalia Romanova looks no different than how he saw her last, not younger or older, but he can't bring himself to feel the relief he's so desperately longing for, not yet when this can all still come crashing down around him. Only in their lives could a happy reunion be so fraught with uncertainty.
"Natalia..." he says again, then shakes his head, scoffing. "'Tasha, it's me."
Reply
She wastes seconds hating herself for the way it leaves her, all breathless, almost desperate hope. Vulnerability is the last thing she wants to show in the field, but the sight of him is hard to deny in the sudden lamplight, not Captain America in his uniform, defiant, but James, barechested in soft cotton pants, hair rumpled from sleep and a thin layer of sweat on him that suggests he's fresh from a nightmare, a sign Natalia knows all too well.
He looks so real, so earnest, that Natalia forgets herself, outflung arm drawing back against her body in a gesture that's almost girlish. That she's clearly no longer in a file room in Moscow, that Sharon is no longer at her back is secondary to the fact that James is somehow miraculously safe.
"How is this possible?"
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"A pocket dimension that exists outside of space-time... That draws people in from whenever and wherever, and drops them down on a picture perfect island in the hopes the scenery will distract from the fact that it's really just a fancy prison with no guard to be seen, but whose presence is keenly felt, regardless. I've been stuck here for months, only no one would know to look for me, because I'm still living my life back home. They call it Tabula Rasa. I call it a frigging joke."
His gaze falls over her as he talks, something almost hungry about the way he looks; his resolve finally wavers, and he points the gun at the floor instead of between her eyes.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
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"What crimes? I don't remember--" he starts in a defiant rush, though he quickly cuts himself off, his lips still parted in surprise, his cheeks still flushed with anger. The slight weight of Natalia's hand is of greater comfort than he would ever admit, though, and his focus is drawn to the curve of her mouth before he looks up again to meet her eyes. "I came here straight from the English Channel Islands, right after the mess with Zemo."
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"James, the crimes for which they condemned you were two hits of the Winter Soldier's, one Victor Lodenko and Rina Szynski, cover names both. They say the Winter Soldier had gone rogue, but I believe otherwise, I believe these people had ties to the Red Room. They were sanctioned hits by the KGB on their own people. I..." She stops short. She's always recovered quickly, but it's all so strange, to be standing here with him after so long, like something from a dream. James has more color to him now, tanned by the sun if the lingering heat is any indication, a looseness to his limbs that she doesn't recall. He's more handsome than ever. Infuriating man. "I had a plan."
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